


consumption

by kunimi



Series: zine pieces [2]
Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Biting, Intimacy, M/M, Vampires, sakusa kiyoomi is a vampire who hates biting people. miya osamu changes that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-20
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:55:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28185027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kunimi/pseuds/kunimi
Summary: “Is this okay?” Osamu asks quietly.Kiyoomi lets out a short nod, because if he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what might come out. Osamu exhales, then runs his fingers lightly over Kiyoomi’s chest, as if Kiyoomi is something holy to touch, and not something made of shadows and teeth.“God, yer fuckin’ beautiful,” Osamu breathes, then he leans forward and presses his lips to Kiyoomi’s collarbone. He maps his way across it with his lips and tongue, his teeth lightly grazing it, and Kiyoomi’s heart stutters.He’s sowarm, so alive, and everything about his mouth on Kiyoomi makes Kiyoomi feel like he could be too.vampires are old monsters, kiyoomi's sister tells him once, and miya osamu is young and bright and alive.(originally published in the hqween zine: nsfw add-on)
Relationships: Miya Osamu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Series: zine pieces [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2059221
Comments: 6
Kudos: 79
Collections: HQween- A Haikyuu Halloween Zine, stories that touched me, 🐶🍙 omigiri fanfic collection





	consumption

**Author's Note:**

> hi! this was originally written for the hqween zine's nsfw add-on!
> 
> i was really interested in the idea of exploring sakusa & the trust it would take to bite—whether you read it as mysophobia or not, either in this fic or in general characterisation, i think there's something fascinating about how he's not someone who would enjoy the method of consumption vampires require, and therefore the intimacy and trust necessary for him to actually _want_ to take that bite. enter miya osamu.
> 
> this is very much mostly about their dynamic, and sakusa's thoughts on the differences between them, both as people and also as monster/man, eternal/ephemeral etc., etc., but also like. lmao. feelings. bc of who i am as a person

_Vampires are old monsters_ , Kiyoomi’s older sister tells him once. _Tradition, ritual, sacrifice and constancy. These are the words we live by. These are the words we hold to_.

Kiyoomi thinks she forgot one. Kiyoomi looks at Miya Osamu, and all he feels is a burning desire to consume, an unforgiving impulse he has never felt so vividly, so viciously, so desperately climbing into his chest, into that space where a beating heart would be if he was someone else. If he was some _thing_ else.

His sister is decades older than him; his brother even older. Kiyoomi is twenty-four, by anyone’s count, but he looks at Osamu and thinks that twenty-four looks so different on someone who has a beating heart and cheeks that flush, on someone young and bright and _alive_. Kiyoomi’s siblings call him young, look at him incredulously when he flashes his fangs as warnings instead of weapons, but when he sees the way Miya Osamu grins, he thinks he’s never felt as young as that. He’s not built for it. Kiyoomi may not be inclined to consumption, may be too disgusted by everyone around him to drink blood with the same ease as his siblings, but he thinks of those words his sister first gave him, and thinks there is nothing else he could have ever been. _Tradition, ritual, sacrifice and constancy._ These are the words he lives by. These are the words he holds to.

This is what he tries to remember when Osamu raises his eyebrow, full of challenge, full of mischief.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” Kiyoomi says irritably. They’re both twenty-four, but Kiyoomi already feels so old, like he’s already lived for an eternity, and Osamu is built out of bright grins and strong hands, all these things which cannot last.

“I know more than ya think,” Osamu says, and there’s still some warmth to his tone, that subtle good humour which Kiyoomi thinks stains every inch of Osamu’s existence, but there’s a quiet sincerity to his voice that makes Kiyoomi’s chest hurt. It would be too much to ask, he thinks, for Osamu to make this easy for him.

Kiyoomi scowls in response, and Osamu grins. He moves closer, carefully, as if Kiyoomi is the one who is delicate here—as if _Kiyoomi_ is the one who is breakable.

Maybe that’s part of the problem. Maybe he is.

Osamu’s hands are slow, but steady, as they tuck into the belt loops of Kiyoomi’s trousers. Kiyoomi lets him, because he is a constant disappointment to himself, and he’s learned how to sacrifice much since his sister gave him that code to live by, but Miya Osamu has a way of breaking all of Kiyoomi’s rules, and Kiyoomi hasn’t yet worked out how to give him up.

“I think you’re makin’ this harder for yerself than it needs to be,” Osamu says. His voice is impossibly fond. Kiyoomi yearns for it and abhors it in equal measure. “What do _you_ want, Omi?”

 _You_ , Kiyoomi thinks, helplessly, hopelessly, with all the honesty of a man who has never known how to soften his blunt edges, and all the fear of a man who has never felt anything like this before. Kiyoomi finds the idea of touching most people horrifying, let alone biting them, but he can feel Osamu’s blood humming beneath his skin like something electric, and something in him desperately wants to taste.

“Tell me what you want,” Osamu murmurs, his face coming in close to Kiyoomi’s, their foreheads resting together. There’s nothing imperious in his tone—there never is, not when it comes to Kiyoomi, and that thought burns through Kiyoomi like fire and gasoline—but it feels like a command anyway, and Kiyoomi has no idea how to resist him.

“I want you to be quiet,” he says grumpily, a half-truth that is safer to give than Kiyoomi’s entire heart.

Osamu sees right through him, like always.

“Oh yeah?” he asks, grinning a little. “Make me.”

Kiyoomi tilts his head, separating their foreheads so he can capture Osamu’s lips with his own. It’s something ferocious, all lips and teeth and heat, and Kiyoomi wonders if it’s possible to want something so much that you burn from it.

Nimble fingers, impossible warmth and a smile that wreaks devastation through Sakusa Kiyoomi: that’s what Miya Osamu is made of.

“Toldja y’were makin’ it harder on yerself than needed,” Osamu gasps against his lips, and then his hands are releasing Kiyoomi’s trousers to snake their way between them, into that space between their chests. His fingers scrabble at the buttons on Kiyoomi’s shirt for a second, until Kiyoomi gets frustrated and breaks the kiss. He pulls back slightly, allowing for space between them. Osamu starts to object, before cutting himself off when Kiyoomi tugs at his own shirt, tearing the fabric. _That_ causes Osamu’s breath to hitch in his throat, and Kiyoomi glances up at him immediately. Osamu’s eyes are dark and wanting, gleaming with something untameable, but there’s a look to them that Kiyoomi doesn’t know what to do with—something awed, something warm, like seeing Kiyoomi like this is a gift.

Kiyoomi doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t Osamu know that he’s the only thing in the world that has ever gotten under Kiyoomi’s skin? Doesn’t Osamu know that Kiyoomi only exists like this for him, because of him, in front of him?

“You’re so annoying,” Kiyoomi says instead of any of that, because he doesn’t have any words honest enough for how he feels.

“Ya love it,” Osamu says, wearing a crooked grin, and then he’s lifting his fingers to Kiyoomi’s chest, pausing just short of touching it. If Kiyoomi needed to breathe, he thinks he’d have stopped in this moment. “Is this okay?” Osamu asks quietly. 

Kiyoomi lets out a short nod, because if he opens his mouth, he’s not sure what might come out. Osamu exhales, then runs his fingers lightly over Kiyoomi’s chest, as if Kiyoomi is something holy to touch, and not something made of shadows and teeth.

“God, yer fuckin’ beautiful,” Osamu breathes, then he leans forward and presses his lips to Kiyoomi’s collarbone. He maps his way across it with his lips and tongue, his teeth lightly grazing it, and Kiyoomi’s heart stutters. 

He’s so _warm_ , so alive, and everything about his mouth on Kiyoomi makes Kiyoomi feel like he could be too.

Kiyoomi clenches his fingers at his sides, digs them into his own palms. Kiyoomi knows if this was anyone else, all he’d be able to think about would be how horrifying their mouth is; with Osamu, all he can think about is how _hot_ his mouth feels on his skin, how his tongue leaves a trail of sparks.

He knows there is a word for this, as all-encompassing and unfathomable as it feels, but he doesn’t trust his mouth to know how to give voice to it. He is made of sharp lines and harsh things, and the way Osamu makes him feel is almost too intimate to bear.

“Can I kiss you?” Osamu asks, separating himself from Kiyoomi’s chest, and Kiyoomi grinds his nails into his palm to resist making a sound at the loss. 

Kiyoomi looks at Osamu’s mouth, and thinks of his teeth.

“Yes,” he says, and Osamu smiles at him. It’s one of the rarer ones, sweet and brilliant. Kiyoomi has never seen him give it to anyone else.

Maybe it’s why Kiyoomi can’t help but give him everything he’s never wanted to give anyone else before.

He takes a breath, settling into his decision. “Can I touch you?” Kiyoomi asks, and Osamu’s eyes widen, his face mere millimetres away from Kiyoomi’s.

“You don’t have to,” Osamu says cautiously, and Kiyoomi makes a disgruntled expression.

“I want to,” he says, and Osamu’s eyes darken. He nods.

“Any time,” he breathes, then he presses forward, pushing his lips to Kiyoomi’s, like he’s trying to swallow him whole. Kiyoomi kisses him back with the same ferocity as before, and he wonders if maybe he can press the way he feels into Osamu’s mouth—if there’s a way to tell him how hard his chest aches from Osamu asking to kiss him, even though Kiyoomi had kissed him just before, just in case; if there’s a way to tell him how much his ribcage shakes with the way he meets him at his boundaries each time, even when Kiyoomi doesn’t ask him to, even though Osamu is the one made of soft skin and gentle grins, and Kiyoomi is built of sharp teeth and shadows of the night.

He reaches down towards Osamu’s trousers, deftly manoeuvring his wrist to unzip his fly, and then cups his hand around his briefs. Osamu groans into his mouth, pressing up against Kiyoomi’s hand. It makes Kiyoomi feel heady, like he could get drunk on this moment, this feeling, the way Osamu’s body feels in his palm. Like he was made for Kiyoomi to touch. He’s the only thing Kiyoomi has ever wanted to touch.

His fangs snap out, grazing the soft skin of Osamu’s lips, and Osamu shudders. He rolls his hips into Kiyoomi’s hand, and Kiyoomi doesn’t understand it, how Osamu can be so pulsing with life against his palm. How Osamu can see him and want him anyway.

Osamu slips his hands between them, pressing his palms against Kiyoomi’s chest, running his hands down Kiyoomi’s sides. He trails his fingers across the grooves of his body, the rivers and planes of his torso, grazing across every inch of his skin, as if Kiyoomi isn’t the one who’s going to look like this forever.

Kiyoomi knows, technically, that Osamu is an ephemeral thing. A transient being. Vampires are built for constancy, but humans are built to change and fade away.

But this moment feels eternal. Endless. Kiyoomi can’t fathom what it would feel like, anymore, not to be surrounded by Miya Osamu. It’s not that he’s everything. It’s that he’s etched himself so deeply into Kiyoomi that Kiyoomi struggles to remember that Osamu isn’t eternal too.

Osamu’s lips move from his mouth, trailing across his jaw, then dotting down his neck.

“Y’wanna lie down?” he murmurs, nipping lightly at Kiyoomi’s throat, his tongue darting out to soothe the skin a moment later.

Kiyoomi wants anything, everything, as long as it’s with him.

It’s a frightening thought.

He doesn’t need to breathe, but he inhales anyway, just because Osamu is so close. _God_ , he smells so good. He’s lightly thrusting against Kiyoomi’s hand, rubbing in time with Kiyoomi’s considering strokes against the fabric of his briefs, but other than his breathing getting shorter, he seems remarkably composed. Kiyoomi hates it. Kiyoomi feels undone.

“I don’t care,” Kiyoomi says, before detaching Osamu’s mouth from his neck so he can look him in the eyes. He feels like he’s about to itch his way out of his skin—like he’s too hot, too hungry, too overwhelmed. Like he wants too much. 

Not for the first time, he wishes he was human. Not just because the method of consumption for his kind is something he finds personally disgusting, for once, but because he wants to know if it would always feel like this. If he would always want Osamu this much. If he’d always want to swallow him whole, feel every inch of him pressed against him, humming with life, even if he couldn’t feel the blood running through his veins.

(He thinks he knows the answer. It’s not one he knows what to do with.)

“Bed, then,” Osamu says, eyes dark, but he surges back to kiss Kiyoomi. The force of his kiss sends them backwards, and Kiyoomi moves his hands to brace themselves, anchoring one around Osamu’s waist, the other catching on the edge of a table to hold them up. Balance restored, Osamu makes a pleased noise against his lips, and keeps kissing him, moving again. He crowds Kiyoomi against the wall, and Kiyoomi can’t help the way his eyes flash when his back hits it—half surprise, half pleasure. He hears, rather than sees, Osamu swallow at the sight. It makes him growl into Osamu’s mouth.

“Fuck,” Osamu gasps, breaking the kiss, staring up at Kiyoomi. “Yer so fuckin’ pretty, Omi, yer _so_ fuckin’ pretty, I literally—” he breaks off, stuttering a shaky laugh as he closes his eyes. When he opens them again, they’re dark and desperate, deep with something that Kiyoomi thinks might be more intimate than simple desire. “I just wanna be with you, Kiyoomi,” he says, heartbreakingly earnestly, like it’s simple. Like it’s easy.

Fuck. Maybe it is.

“Osamu,” Kiyoomi says, like it’s a plea, like it’s a prayer. “Please.”

Osamu looks at him, eyes careful, but gentle. “Kiyoomi, I need—I need to know,” he says. His voice isn’t steady at all, it’s breathless and wanting and exhilarated, but there’s a simplicity to it that cuts through everything in Kiyoomi’s chest, everything he doesn’t know how to say.

“You’re literally all I want,” Kiyoomi says. He can’t help how disgusted he sounds; it’s in his nature. He’s never wanted anything before, not like this. All he’s ever wanted is to see something through. And then Miya Osamu had to come by and show him care and consideration; had to look at him and see something worth meeting halfway. “Please fuck me,” he tacks on, because he is direct to a fault, and he cannot leave that intimate vulnerability hanging in the air between them, not when Osamu is a temporary thing that has managed to wind up holding all of Kiyoomi’s eternal pieces.

Osamu chokes a laugh, but his eyes are warm, determined. Reassured. Like he knew, somehow, and was just waiting for that final piece, of Kiyoomi giving him everything in a way that couldn’t be misinterpreted.

“For you, Omi? Anythin’,” he says, grinning, and then he’s working down Kiyoomi’s trousers, pushing down Kiyoomi’s underwear. He reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out a packet of lube. “Shut up,” he says, when he notices Kiyoomi’s raised eyebrow. “You’re the one who likes when people take care of things, ain’tcha?”

Kiyoomi rolls his eyes, and Osamu smirks at him. He pours some lube into his hands, then rubs his palms together, warming it. He looks at Kiyoomi, his expression turning more serious.

“I didn’t come… expectin’ anythin’, y’know,” he says quietly. “I mean, I knew it was possible, ‘cause it’s us, but I didn’t come by… just to fuck.” He looks at Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi thinks he could drown in the earnestness in his eyes. “I just wanted to see ya.”

Kiyoomi’s chest aches. 

“I know,” he says. He quirks his lips up in a half smirk. “You’d have been smoother if you just wanted to fuck,” he says, and Osamu laughs.

“Fuck you, I’m always smooth,” he says, but he coats his fingers in the lube, focusing on his task with renewed energy, before wiping off his other hand. His cheeks are flushed with warmth—with blood—and Kiyoomi suddenly thinks about his teeth again, and the way Osamu’s entire body hums with life.

Kiyoomi has never drunk blood with the ease of his siblings, has always loathed using his teeth, but he looks at Osamu and he thinks he wants to bite him, if he’d let him.

Then he groans, because Osamu is pressing two fingers inside him, slowly but firmly pushing past the ring of muscle, and Kiyoomi’s first instinct is to bite down on Osamu’s shoulder. He refrains, but he seizes his shoulders tightly, and digs his fingers in. It’s an awkward angle, given they’re both standing up, and it would be easier for Kiyoomi to do it, given his wrists, but Osamu seems determined; luckily, he’s the shorter of the two of them, so he’s managing well enough. He massages Kiyoomi’s prostate, scissors his fingers, maps his way inside Kiyoomi with the same dedication that he had mapped his way down Kiyoomi’s torso, and Kiyoomi is coming alive, coming apart, coming together into something new, in this space here with Osamu.

Then Osamu pushes in three fingers, and Kiyoomi’s hips buck.

“There ya go,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi scowls at him.

“Asshole,” he mutters, but Osamu’s answering chuckle rockets right to his heart regardless. He crooks his fingers inside of him, and Kiyoomi swears. When he finally removes them, after thrusting in and out and twisting them around, Kiyoomi isn’t sure whether he’s furious or relieved to move on.

Then Osamu’s clean hand is on his jaw, cupping his cheek, and he’s looking Kiyoomi in the eyes. Kiyoomi stares back, unblinking, just drinking him in.

“Osamu,” he starts, hesitantly. “Can I…”

“Yes,” Osamu says immediately.

“You didn’t even hear what I was going to say,” Kiyoomi argues.

Osamu shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter,” he says. Kiyoomi opens his mouth to argue again, but Osamu gives him a look. It’s the same one he gave him earlier, with something deeper in it than desire. “I told you, Kiyoomi. I want to be with you. I know what you are. You can bite.”

Kiyoomi shudders, and Osamu gives him a gentle smile. He presses a kiss to his lips, and then he’s easing his way in and oh— _oh_ —it’s so much, Kiyoomi thinks, it’s so _much_ , they’re so connected, and he’s only just started entering.

And then he finally pushes all the way in, and stills, waiting for Kiyoomi to adjust. Kiyoomi, who is barely holding himself up against the wall, mostly relying on Osamu’s arms now.

“Okay?” Osamu asks, his teeth flashing in the moonlight. Kiyoomi’s fangs descend even further in response.

“Okay,” he murmurs.

Osamu grins, then pulls out, before snapping his hips up, thrusting entirely into Kiyoomi. It’s so much, Kiyoomi thinks, but it’s still not enough, still not connected entirely. Kiyoomi lunges forward and nips at Osamu’s shoulder, and Osamu groans, rolling his hips against Kiyoomi.

“Again,” Osamu says, and Kiyoomi looks at him carefully. “ _Again_ ,” Osamu repeats, and Kiyoomi nods.

He sinks his teeth into Osamu’s neck on the next thrust, and his mind almost goes blank with how good it feels. They’re a closed circuit now—Osamu inside Kiyoomi, and Kiyoomi inside Osamu. Teeth and skin and heat.

He’s not thinking about how disgusting biting is, nor how horrifying this form of consumption is. All he can think about, with blood in his mouth and Osamu pounding into him, is _Osamu, Osamu, Osamu._ All he can think about is consumption. All he can think about is that maybe he’s being consumed by this too.

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me on [twitter!](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/)
> 
> the twitter post for this fic can be found [here!](https://twitter.com/kurokenns/status/1340537909628133377?s=20)


End file.
